Hugs
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Hugs are a way of saying sorry, thank you, I love you and so many other emotions when words fail them. John Watson loves hugs- especially ones from Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time it is Johnlock, but sometimes they're just friends *terrified fangirl sob* . Hugs are drabbles focusing around hugs, great post-reichenbach medicine; I hope these will make you smile : Please R and R
1. Authors note and intro

_Hugs 3rd person singular present, plural of hug _

_Verb: Squeeze (someone) tightly in one's arms, typically to express affection._

_Noun: An act of holding someone tightly in one's arms, typically to express affection._

Sherlock, surprisingly, loves to give out hugs. John, on the other hand, loves to receive them.

This came as an immense surprise to John. Three minutes after becoming lovers on the 27th July, John was treated to his very first hug; and he honestly loved it.

Sherlock has as many types of hugs as he does facial expressions.

There is the gentle _I love you _squeeze, usually when he and John are walking on the pavement. They usually hug gently first, then spend some time walking around with Sherlock's arm around John's shoulder and John's arm around the former man's waist.

Then there is the Case High Hug. This is usually where, after John has made a little deduction; no matter how small or insignificant it is, Sherlock gives him a massive bear hug usually with a kiss to the top of his head. Before John can blink in surprise, Sherlock has moved away and is flitting around making bigger deductions.

John's favourite hug, however, is the _I'm Tired. _When John is lounged across the sofa and Sherlock has been up for numerous days, he will come and practically _lay _on the good doctor, wrapping his long and skinny arms around the other's waist and burying his dark and curly haired head into John's shoulder, giving silent premission for John to stroke the surprisingly soft curls. Sherloc usually ends up falling asleep... not that John minds. Heck, he usually does too.

Now, hugs are John's way of saying _sorry, thank you, I love you_ and so many other emotions when words fail him. John sometimes needs to be _told _that Sherlock loves him, and even though he knows that already sometimes a hug can carry much more feeling and emotion than mere words.

Sherlock does it because sometimes words are not enough, and just the feel of the strong army doctor around him is enough to calm the worries gathering inside his head like a great snowstorm.

Other times, it is more of an ownership thing; because, if there is one thing Sherlock fears more than any other, it is John leaving him. A hug is a merge of two people, a merge of love and actual contact between your soul and another's. John Watson is, and forever will be, Sherlock's. Not that John minds. Why, John feels exactly the same way over Sherlock.

In no particular order, here are little Hugs drabbles; I hope you love them as much as I love writing them.

-LN x


	2. Comets

**Hello there, beautiful reader! **

**After a week of writers block, loads of plot bunnies come at once. Like a bus, really- when you need one you wait **_**ages**_** and then two come along at once! **

**Plot bunnies suddenly decided to keep me awake for whatever reason. This turned out to be a bit more angsty than intended, but I suppose it's okay. It has a happy ending! :D**

**As always, please rate and review! **

**-L x**

* * *

The Second Edition of the 20-volume Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. To this may be added around 9,500 derivative words included as subentries. Over half of these words are nouns, about a quarter adjectives, and about a seventh verbs; the rest is made up of exclamations, conjunctions, prepositions, and suffixes. And these figures don't take account of entries with senses for different word classes (such as noun and adjective), and what about all the other words with multiple meanings?

The first hug marked so many things, and it was so raw with emotion that I don't think the enlish language actually has a word for it; as a writer, this is a pretty incredible feat.

In short, there is a hell of a lot of words to describe the relationship between Doctor John Hamish Watson and Sherlock William Jacque Holmes- but _none _of them fit perfectly. It simply wouldn't do their relationship justice.

Now, dear reader, what would be the point in that?

* * *

The first hug John remembers very well. He sees every reason why he should- it was just after Sherlock had returned after faking his death.

It had been a pretty dull morning, if you ask John. Then again, every morning without the curly haired detective swooping about was a very dull one indeed.

John hadn't even wanted to get up; he knew what day it was. It was the first anniversary of his best friend, the worlds only consulting detective throwing himself off a building. The reason remained unknown. John didn't know. He doubted that he would ever know.

Making coffee. Routine. Silently stirring the coffee while he tried to avoid the smiley face shot in the wall by _him; _in doing so, the tears rose fresh and hot. With disappointment he realised that he wasn't Sherlock, he would never be as great or as smart or as brilliant as he; John couldn't _delete _things like he could. His brain wasn't wired that way. If he ever got the gift, the first thing he would do is delete the emotions like love from his system. They were more trouble than they were worth.

A choked sob escaped from his chest as the tears started to flow down his sunken cheeks and come to rest in his stubble. John wiped them away with a bit more force than necessary, before cradling the warm cup in his hands and turning to leave.

He didn't get far.

As John turned, the detective stood, somewhat sheepishly in the doorway; the mug fell out of his hands and smashed on the tile floor, spraying molten hot coffee everywhere, including John.

'I am so sorry.'

John tried to breath, in, out, in, out, in, out, in, out…. When that failed he closed his eyes and counted the seconds.

One…two…three….four…five…six…seven

_**WHACK!**_

John had hit him. Sherlock had obviously seen it coming, because he hadn't recoiled; rather he had stood his ground to take whatever John gave him.

John's hand throbbed, but he ignored it. A large, red mark had started to blossom over Sherlock's left cheek, but the punch wasn't hard enough to brake the skin.

'A year, Sherlock!' By now the good doctor had grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his collar and started to shake him. 'A _year! _Do you know what shit I went through? The therapists? I had _five-'_

'Five?'

'-Yes, _five fucking therapists__, you bloody pillock__!_ I kept unleashing my fury because they said you were a fake!' John howled, tears running shamelessly down his cheeks. This time, he didn't bother to wipe them away. He shook Sherlock harder, wanting him to feel a fraction of the anger he himself was feeling at that moment. 'I went to your grave everyday, I talked to a _grave, _begging you to come back before I was too broken for you to even consider bloody wanting-!'

'-I know, I know-'

John's brow suddenly cleared of all frown lines, his face blank. This frightened Sherlock no end- John's face was never blank, ever. He was like play-doh, his face always moulding into so many different expressions that it was hard to keep track of them. This- this blank mask that John was currently masquerading- was terrifying.

'-because that was the problem. Wasn't it?'

John's voice was devoid of all emotion. Sherlock's eyes were filling with tears rather quickly, his breathing becoming rapid.

'I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And you didn't- obviously the work-' John spat out the words as if they were poison. '-mattered more than I. You didn't love me back.'

'Wrong.'

John looked slightly stunned. 'What?'

Sherlock dropped to his knees, and buried his face into John's stomach. He didn't give a flying toss about dignity, he had had that robbed and stripped bare from his ego long, long ago.

'John Watson, I love you. I love you more than anything.'

John closed his eyes, Sherlock could sense it. The tears were starting to soak John's jumper, but that was probably the furthest thing on his mind.

'I don't believe you,' came the strangled whisper. Sherlock's stomach dropped as he got up off of his knees and wiped away the tears.

'John Watson- when I was away, I was dead.' The mentioned man flinched, but Sherlock carried on anyway. 'Not literally- I was here, I was still breathing and my heart was beating- but I was dead. I had no emotions, nothing positive, just days of depression and despair which was like an endless tunnel. My heart had been ripped from my chest, and stamped on by the likes of Moriarty. I was numb- because I left my heart hear with you.'

John didn't say anything. Sherlock carried on, regardless. 'Before you, my life was like a dark night. Pitch black, with only the far off moon- the work- as a pointer of reason. I had _nothing _to live for- what do you do when the only thing you love has lost it's appeal? I was considering-' Sherlock swallowed, unsure what to say. After a few moments, he continued. 'I was considering… taking my own life. I would live the last in an adrenaline filled rush as I overdosed or I kicked the chair from under me. It seemed exciting, to say the very least. My life was blank. I was a pile of skin and bones, wasting precious oxygen and space.

'Then suddenly, you shoot across my sky like a comet-' Sherlock's tear streaked face twisted into a watery smile. '- God, there was brilliance and beauty, my world was on fire. There was reason to live, to smile. I was happy. I knew that I had feelings for you-'

'You did?' asked John, surprised. 'I thought I was the only one!'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I tried to make advances, but no online blog helped me much. It mattered- of course it did, you should have felt the all-consuming jealousy I felt when you were with that Sarah woman- but I wanted our friendship. I didn't want you to be scared off if I tried to make advances.

'I was at my happiest, then Moriarty came and destroyed it all. I had to leave, and I am so sorry. When I was away, I had been blinded by your light- I couldn't see anything, even though you had disappeared over the horizon. The thought of leaving you killed me, but I would much rather have seen you hurt rather than as a box of ashes if I stayed.'

There was a pause as both men looked at each other, blue eyes meeting grey. Both men were openly crying now, Sherlock possibly even more so, his breaths coming out in shaky gasps. 'John Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I am unashamed to say I love you.' He looked at the floor, a blush creeping across his cheekbones.

John was surprised at the embrace that he himself offered. He embraced the shaking detective and buried his face into the taller man's shoulder.

Sherlock, in turn, buried his head into John's hair, pressing kisses blindly on any patch of John's pale, milky skin. His arms were around his waist, hugging, pulling, squeezing- it was as if both men were frightened that one of them would disappear at any given moment. In truth, both of them were.

'You prat,' John pulled away and said shakily. 'I-I think… I love you too.'

It wasn't a normal first hug, one might say. But in Sherlock's world, it was absolutely perfect- besides, who wants to be normal, anyway?

Defiantly not John Watson or Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Would you like some poison with that?

**_I honestly don't know what I have done to deserve you guys. Just... YOU GUYS! :D You're all so awesome. Especially Trufflehead, who is my best virtual friend (and, quite nicely my real-life best friend too), and whom I hope to be my long-lost sister, and also ScaryLittleGhostGirl, who seems to review every single chapter I write, no matter how crap the fic turns out to be in the long run._**

**_Sorry for my gushing. I'm just so happy! Thank you also to the two 'Nonnys, Becca and Guest, and also SherlockedSherlockian. And, also you, who is taking the time out to read this. You're adding to my Fic Reader Counter! ;)_**

**_Huhem. Another Hugs chapter, I'm not sure what to say! (These feels are getting to me). I hope this makes up for the Angst I made you feel last time- this is quite FLUFFY! :3 - hehe. My fluff face. :)_**

**_-LN x_**

* * *

Sherlock tries his best to be a good lover, especially in the beginning. After all, it_ is_ an experiment of sorts… what John likes, what he doesn't, what the 'normal' thing to do is. And Sherlock quite likes this experiment. It's a bit hard to explain (as most romantic things are if you haven't met the love of your life yet) so Sherlock practically gave John the biggest compliment there is; Sherlock would love to continue it for the rest of his life.

Hm. _Normal. _That's the type of lover Sherlock wants to be, especially because John seems to fall for normal people; just look at Mary, Sarah, Joanne and all the countless other women that John has been out with. Completely mundane and mediocre. Dull. Even so, Sherlock wants to be _normal for John_- he doesn't think that he has ever wanted to be anything so badly.

However, the fact that Sherlock wouldn't recognize normal if it flashed him on the street in the August sunshine is a bit of a stumbling block.

Not that John minds. It actually is rather amusing, if you ask him; and, like Sherlock, is completely new. However, dear reader, John is more of a display of affection kind of person. Sherlock… is a bit more _unusual_ in a sense.

* * *

Today, John had had a bad day. He was coming down with a bit of a cold himself, not to mention Sarah was ignoring him and the patients seemed more unbearable today than they were yesterday (if such a thing is possible). Not to mention that every cabbie he hailed had been full, so he had had to walk home in the typical English rain.

It had _tipped _it down. The rain had managed to soak through his thick jacket, through a woolly jumper which was over scrubs and even the short sleeved shirt underneath. John was pretty sure that he was cold through to his very bones.

After fumbling with the keys, he fell through the door and into the lobby. Stretching and stifling a yawn, he began to climb the stairs, his world seeming eerily silent.

'Sherlock?'

No answer.

John paused on the staircase leading up to 221B. _Odd. _Sherlock mustn't be in then… but Sherlock always texts John when he is.

'Sherlock?'

Once again, no answer. Shaking his head and trying to clear the negative thoughts gathering like quicksilver, he opened the door to 221B.

_Ah. That's _Sherlock wasn't answering.

You see, dear reader, the silly consulting detective was stretched out across the floor, fast asleep. His hair was freaking _insane_, his clothes were slightly damp and there were a few angry red marks on the pale patches of skin. Sherlock was snoring (see, that's the thing about Sherlock- snores like a bloody hog. John thinks this is the cause for his recent bout of insomnia. _Anyway_…. Getting _on_.), but even in his sleep he looked incredibly pleased with himself.

John shook his head and gently ran his fingers through the detective's hair, which was enough to wake him. Sherlock blearily blinked, before smiling.

'Have you seen it?'

John frowns, wondering what an earth could cause Sherlock to look so pleased with himself. Last time, he had found out the exact time and heat that made eyeballs explode, but the unfortunate bit was that _John _had been the one to clean up after. The smell- like rancid meat mixed with burning rubber and other terrible things- still haunts his very dreams.

'Seen what, Sherlock?' John asked tensely, peeling off his wet clothes. 'What have you done?'

Sherlock's expression momentarily shifted, and he made the face he makes when John is being dense, as if John acts stupid simply to annoy him. He gave a long suffering sigh and heaved himself up, wincing slightly as he unconsciously rubbed his arms, aggravating the thin cuts.

'Come along, John.' Sherlock said as he took the spoken mans hand and lead him to the dining room.

What was on the table shocked him quite a bit.

'Is this… for some sort of case?' John asked dumbly.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. John turned to him, confused, only to find a… was it a _blush _across Sherlock's cheeks?

'Lovers, and normal people, like being given flowers,' Sherlock mumbled. 'So I gave you flowers.'

Well, flowers indeed.

For a start, this… vase full of flowers… well, they consisted entirely of poisonous plants. Nearer the top, and working way down, were florescent orange Angel's trumpets, brilliant white thorn-apples intermingled with gorgeous sprays of violet foxglove and violent splays of nightshades. At the bottom the smallest (and, arguably, the brightest) flowers lay, and John could pick out Common Broom and Yellow Bell, before it became just a whorl of yellow colour.

Sherlock was still holding onto John's hand, so he pointed using both of their hands and lightly brushed the creation.

'There is _olanum_, _Datura inoxia_, _Cytisus scoparius,_ _Digitalis_, _Brugmansia_ and _Allamanda_.' Said Sherlock, still uncharacteristically embarrassed, pointing to the Nightshades, Thorn-Apples, Common Brooms, Foxglove, Angel's Trumpets and Yellow Bell respectively.

This…. Bouquet, he supposed it was, was the oddest, most insane thing that John had ever seen. He noted with affection that it wasn't even _symmetrical;_ John saws some flowers with longer stems naturally arced and bent their flowers outward, like blood spray from a head wound- when he has come to this deduction, he realises that bit must've been intentional.

'Are they-?'

'All in their amounts? Yes. They're all in deadly amounts.' Sherlock clarified. John didn't know what to say.

No one in the world could possibly think this was a bouquet, a gesture of love.

Except John Hamish Watson.

His hands tremble, not because of the psychosomatic trauma, but because he is containing all the emotions that are flooding his brain. If he stopped his hands shaking, he would do an incredibly unmanly thing; he would burst into tears.

John was incredibly aware of his heart and breathing rate, both of which had spiked considerably. He was sure that if someone looked into his eyes, they would almost be black, the pupils would probably be so enormous.

Then most noticeable thing, however, almost like the blooms, John could feel a grin spread across his face. Sherlock, meanwhile, was babbling.

'I had to go and get some myself,' he said, indicating the scratches on his arm. 'They weren't easy to get, a cat didn't like me touching the foxgloves and-' Sherlock's face fell as he saw John gazing up at him. 'Don't you like it?'

John shook his head- how can a man so smart sometimes be so dumb?- and hugged him, throwing his arms around the tall man's neck and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock quickly reciprocated, winding his long and gangly arms around John's waist.

John stood up on his tip-toes- not that he was much taller, bless him- and Sherlock leaned down enough so that John could whisper in his ears.

'I don't like it, Sherlock- I _love _it.' Sherlock smiled triumphantly, and John unwound an arm and tugged it gently through the ebony hair. 'You funny man, I love you.'

Sherlock quickly reciprocated again, this time with a kiss.


	4. As you wish

_**A/N: I can imagine many, many ways of the first hug. I know I said the first hug was after T.R.F, but…. This just came into my head, and the plot bunnies were egged on by Silly.**_

_**So think of this as a… first hug 2#**_

_**You're welcome. ;)**_

* * *

Long, long before John and Sherlock ever became a couple, it began with seventeen eyeballs, a snake cut in half, a sheeps brain and many a dirty plate in the sink.

John had trudged up the stairs, laden with green shopping bags, to find this... _interesting _experiment in the kitchen sink. The sink he needed to use to clean up the broken jar of jam in his bag, which he accidentally broke in the first place by tripping over Sherlock's Belladonna plant which resided outside 221B.

John dropped the bags, his body temperature and heart rate rising considerably with his rage.

'Sherlock!'

He saw a mass of dark curls twist, only for a few seconds later a pale face to peek above the sofa.

'Yes, John?' The head replied lazily. John scrubbed a hand over his face.

'Sherlock, you just can't keep doing this. At the very least, keep the experiments separate from the washing up. It's seriously unsanitary, and I don't want a heart attack every time I go to clean or wash something up!'

'As you wish.'

The way Sherlock said it, it was almost an sarcastic insult— John can't decipher if Sherlock is actually listening to him or whether he just deleted the words John said. As he lay back down, he closed his lavender lids and goes back from where he was disturbed praying to the gods of the patch of ceiling above the sofa.

* * *

It becomes standard, as much of a routine as rooftop chases and Angelo's and waking up to your favourite cup holding a concoction of internal organs being marinating in something that smells lethal. It just… **_is._**

'Send your own texts.'

'As you wish.' He replied, setting down his dropper and Bunsen burner to pick up his BlackBerry.

* * *

'John! Where are my cigarettes?' Sherlock was searching manically, diving into all sorts of places and piles in a desperate attempt to find them. 'I need my cigarettes!'

When the man in question doesn't reply, he stands over John and tries to get eye contact. He fails miserably.

'No, Sherlock. You've been doing so well.'

'Please, John?'

'No.'

'…please?'

That sound is enough to make John raise his eyes away from the paper to the manic, heavily breathing detective.

'Come on. We agreed. Cold turkey.' John can't help but feel smug as Sherlock puts down the Persian slipper in defeat.

'As you wish.'

* * *

'John?'

'Yes?'

Sherlock pouted. 'We're out of milk.'

John raised an eyebrow and sets down his paper. 'And?'

'Can you get some?'

'No,_ you_ can go out and get the milk.' Replied John, picking _The Times _back up and continuing to read. 'It's been my turn for the past fifteen months.'

Sherlock gave a soft sigh and picked up his coat and scarf. His answer didn't fail to surprise John.

'As you wish. Would you like anything while I'm out?'

* * *

It's only one day, when John agreed to meet up with Harry (and she perfectly sober for once) everything was going pretty much perfectly.

They both sat down on the red leather sofa to watch a movie, _The Princess Bride_ (which was Harry's favourite), throwing popcorn at each other when it happened.

_'…That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying 'As you wish', what he meant was, 'I love you._''

John's mouth dropped to the floor. Harry blinked at him with her wide blue eyes.

'John? Is everything okay?'

John promptly picked up his coat and ran down the cold streets of Surrey until he could hail a cab that wasn't full.

* * *

'Sherlock?'

He set down his experiment, wondering what an earth he had done this time. John was looking incredibly serious, as well as incredibly wet. Sherlock stood that little bit straighter and stared at the ex-army doctor.

There was a silence.

Suddenly, he smiled and hugged Sherlock with all the strength he possessed.

'John?'

John smiled into Sherlock's shoulder. 'Yes?'

Sherlock audibly swallowed. 'I….I think I love you.'

It was even more amazing; it was the day John finally realized he truly loved him back.


End file.
